


Sensations

by Kaiseilin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual!Sherlock, Cuddling and Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff, Grey-A, M/M, Scratching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 05:22:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiseilin/pseuds/Kaiseilin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is in one of his moods and John discovers a way to fix it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sensations

**Author's Note:**

> Oh god if you know me in real life just never read this or don't tell me if you do! XD

It wasn't the first time John had found himself with a lap full of consulting detective. It often happened when Sherlock was bored, sulking like everyone in the world had wronged him. It was quite recent in the scheme of things though, it had taken them both a long time to realise Sherlock could gain a sense of contentment from physical touch. Then the problem was getting Sherlock to relent to it and admit when he needed it. Or to succumb to thinking he needed anything at all, apart from nicotine or more _varied_ stimulants.

 

This one was safer and unspeakably routine. Like most of the rest of their relationship, it just happened without explanation and confused both of them past the point of caring. John wondered if he'd ever stopped being confused or surprised by Sherlock but he guessed that was wishful thinking. And really, if he was truly eloquently honest with himself, he liked the confusion and surprise, more than he cared to admit.

 

Just like Sherlock enjoyed the warmth of his body more than he'd admit.

 

The doctor hadn't said anything when Sherlock crawled onto the couch and flopped down in a flurry of melodramatic frustration on his stomach. He'd grunted when Sherlock's head collided with him and shot an irritated look to the detective which was returned. Once both men had finished their fussing and pretending they were annoyed to be in each other's space though John laid his arms back down, this time around Sherlock's shoulders and upper back, and continued reading his book.

 

He remained that way for a chapter before letting one of his hands slowly draw circles into the detective's back. Softly offering unspoken comfort and Sherlock began to mutter, no doubt insulting the ways of the world and solving hypothetical cases, insulting stupid serial killers or members of Scotland Yard. John continued to rub his back and read, ignored the venting, he didn't need to listen anyway. It was just Sherlock purging his thoughts.

 

He griped when Sherlock turned his face suddenly into his stomach, sharp nose digging into his abdomen without warning. He just sighs when the muttering returns, this time into his jumper, muffled by the thick fibres but warmly vibrating in a patch where his mouth would be. He smiles a little, losing his place in the book in favour of rubbing Sherlock's back more firmly and observing the way the detective's hands were looped round his middle in a sort of hug, the way their legs were tangled, Sherlock's sticking up ridiculously at the end of the couch where his knees met the arm.

 

A particularly hard shove of the detective's head accompanied a muffled insult of someone or other and John sharply inhaled at being almost winded, rubbing a line down Sherlock's spinal ridges in quiet warning. Thumb jolting over each pronounced bump. Surprisingly, the muttering stopped - everything stopped. John took this either as a warning to stop too, or Sherlock realising he quite liked it and was any minute planning to spring up and run away. Either way it would result in Sherlock leaving so John hastily did it again, harder, pushing into each vertebrae. The clearly forced resistance to relax into it gave John his answer and he secretly grinned in triumph. He didn't bother trying to pretend he didn’t know because Sherlock was Sherlock. So in true soldier spirit he tossed his book down and placed two hands on the shirt covered back. Trapped the detective there. Rubbed firmly with both thumbs over the shoulder blades and spinal arch once. Then he relaxed a little, lessened the enveloped feel he’d created – he was militarized and stubborn, not cruel. Sherlock didn't run though, as stubborn as John was, and the doctor grinned. Sherlock's need for stimulation and unwillingness to back down was both a strength and a weakness.

 

So John massaged his back firmly, precisely, like a doctor would. Sherlock liked him like that: professional, skilled, the military doctor. He hadn't said it but John could tell, there were some well placed smirks the detective couldn't hide quick enough. Just to be clinical about it he named each bone, each muscle and joint as his fingers delved into them hard. He said it under his breath, barely aloud but Sherlock would hear because he wanted to and John knew it. Sherlock knew John knew it and the feeling made John grin from ear to ear at how he wasn't always the one being wrapped round the other's finger. The control worked two ways.

 

A strange thing happened when John ran his fingertips up Sherlock's sides in that he sighed outright. Involuntary, if the clenching of the detectives fists at his sides and the tut into his stomach was anything to go by and with Sherlock it was _everything_ to go by. John smirked and did it again, lightly trailed his fingers up and frowned when there was no response apart from a small, entirely mocking laugh into his jumper. His eyebrows furrowed at getting it wrong, so he did the opposite while Sherlock grinned into his tummy, ran his hands up again but this time pressed the tips of his fingers hard into the skin as they ran up.

 

It was his turn to grin when the response was a shudder and stiff jerking into the motion.

 

_Firm then, fingertips._ John catalogued it into his mind and decided to experiment.

 

He tries it on the flat plain of Sherlock's back, first with the pads of his fingers, which didn't yield much and then with the tips on end, almost like he was scratching him, which brought about a lesser version of the shudder before. Sherlock was trying his best to hide the reactions now but John was looking for the signs, and Sherlock was absent minded when confronted by new sensations and distractions. There was probably a million sensory thoughts being categorized right now and John knew what a twitch of the feet or tightening of the hands at his sides or a thrust into the couch meant.

 

_Fingertips, scratching motion._ He lightly traced circles again while he thought of the next move, not too long though in case Sherlock decided this wasn't entertaining any more. Just enough to keep the suspense up.

 

He tugged the remaining inch of Sherlock's shirt from the waistband of his trousers a moment later and hitched it up around his chest so the skin of his back was presented. He noticed the skin was taught and smiled to himself, lay hands flat on it and smoothed them over the area. The he scratched lightly with the tips of his fingers, over the flesh and Sherlock's legs squirmed in a satisfactory manner. He tried the same force, this time on the spinal ridges and the result was a clear bitten groan into his stomach.

 

_Masochism. Strong sensations._ He filed it away. Not surprised Sherlock liked being scratched at all in any sense. He was always looking for sensations and rushes.

 

He carves little arches around Sherlock's shoulder blades with the semi circles of his thumb nails and feels hot breathing being laboured through his jumper material. For a moment he feels worried about scratching any harder. His administrations so far are just enough to leave faint red lines that fade in a minute or two but he suspects Sherlock wants it harder. He himself wants to see the reaction but his doctor's code is flashing a warning about the dangers of dirt and germs under fingernails and the possibility of infection. He does routinely clean his nails though and if Sherlock ends up scratched, well, he's a doctor.

 

He risks it, rakes his fingers downward and then pulls them up with the tips dug in a little more. Sherlock jolts forward with the soft red lines being pushed into his skin and cries gutturally into John's middle. John does it again, claws at the sides of his ribs, really digs the nails into each groove and feels himself biting his lip when Sherlock grabs at his sides and grinds into the couch with his hips.

 

He pricks the skin with small nail arches all the way down the plain of his back, bringing his fingers down in a wave and leaving dotted red patters as they went. The shuddering grows, the nuzzling of the detective's forehead more insistent and when he gets to the very bottom of his back and rakes _hard_ back up the sides, Sherlock growls into his torso, legs pushing for the contact. 

 

John tries to remain calm as he assesses the situation, Sherlock is clearly aroused in some way and from the movement of his hips it's probably not the way John's used to. Sherlock doesn't get excited like  _that_ , not often, hardly ever and so John is finding this surprising and more than a bit flustering. 

 

Sherlock's back is awash with deep red pattern and sensitive welts and he's impatiently squirming for more. John gives it to him, brings his hands to the base of Sherlock's neck and scratches outwards like he's trying to pull the skin apart. Digs nails into the shoulder blades, rakes up the vertebrae and claws again up the sides of his torso. Sherlock has thrown control to the wind and grinds freely into the couch, soft noises falling from his mouth, growing louder with each motion inflicted on his skin. Louder when it was harder and John can feel his pulse quickening. He wonders if Sherlock can get off like this, it certainly seems like it with the way he's going. The curls at the base of his neck are damp with exertion and John grabs at it with one hand and tugs, while the other grabs a paler space of the detective's back and scratches deeply. 

 

The cry that results is loudest yet and the panting continues in quick tones he's unable to keep in, mouthing gibberish into John's quickly dampening jumper and so the good doctor, sensing completion if the jerky succession of hips was a clue, grabs once more. He lets go of his worries and pulls his other hand from one side of him, up across his back, over the spine in an arch and down to the other side, hard enough that bloods pricks out of the surface in some places. The result is a flurry of desperate cries that end in a deep choked grunt and a complete stiffening of the body that John recognises clearly as orgasm. 

 

It takes him a moment to realise he is also breathing hard, he slowly and shakily takes his hands from Sherlock's hair and back and runs them softly over the wounds adorning the pale skin. The detective makes soft content noises as he passes over each one and John can't help but smile widely at discovering something Sherlock likes this much. 

 

“Better?” He swallows, voice catching in his throat.

 

“Somewhat.” Sherlock replies, voice clear as he turns his head to the side. 

 

John laughs in return, lets his head fall back and sighs. “Bloody hell.” He says, just because he feels fantastic and he feels Sherlock laughing as well. “Before you argue, I  _will_ be disinfecting and keeping an eye on these.” He says, running a thumb down a particularly red line. Sherlock hums deep in stimulation and nods.

 

“Fine.”

 

“Fine? No arguing? I thought you'd want me to stay away from them while you parade around preening at them in the mirror when you think I'm not watching.”

 

“I don't _preen._ ” He bites. “But I will be examining them for a moment before you dutifully heal them as my doctor.”

 

John blinks in surprise. “Really? It's that easy?”

 

“Oh yes.” He says, voice thick and deep with baritone amusement. “The sooner you heal them,” He turns his head upwards to meet John's eyes, cheeks flushed and hair damp. “The sooner you can do it again...and again.” He smirks mischievously, eyes alight and John feels himself throb. 

 

“God yes.” He sighs, eyes lower still when Sherlock shuffles down his body and begins undoing his trouser belt with clear purpose. “Oh...god _yes_.”


End file.
